


Everything Will Be Alright (I Believe In You And Me)

by pettiot



Series: Professionals Timeline [13]
Category: The Professionals
Genre: Companionship, Near Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-17
Updated: 2010-11-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:02:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22241488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pettiot/pseuds/pettiot
Summary: Finding the cave finally convinced Bodie he was going to die.
Series: Professionals Timeline [13]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1600894
Kudos: 2





	Everything Will Be Alright (I Believe In You And Me)

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Kipling's "Man Who Would Be King" - - amidst the datedness, had some inspirational buddy scenes between the two leads.

  


Finding the cave finally convinced Bodie he was going to die.

The difficulty of moving through snow had consumed his limited attention. He no longer felt the cold or his sweat, and almost failed to recognise the rockface shadow for what it was. Certainly not salvation.

Inside, he needed Ray's help to unwrap from his improvised crutch. He eyed his wounded extremity, sick with trepidation. One benefit of the blanketing snow being that his ankle had frozen, permitting abuse, but with a pending, if temporary thaw?

Ray tucked him by the hand-stacked chimney before disappearing outdoors, to see if their current elevation granted a view to civilisation. Even his usual spry grace was gone.

Dragging himself onto the ashy ledge, Bodie looked for a loose stone, behind which he found the oilskin pouch. The shepherd or hunter who used the cave, likely for his summer sleepover, held true to literary type. The package contained matches, packed dry kindling, cigarettes and a flask of lighter fluid.

Inventory: five logs, and one decrepit rug. Scottish tartan bright as a bad joke considering their current longitude. Come to it, the branch/crutch would burn. His chocolate they shared yesterday, the wrapper in his pocket for fear of leaving bright paper fluttering around the wilderness. Gun, full magazine. Only one use left for it.

Bodie had the first log alight by the time Ray returned. He looked up at his partner.

Snowflakes scattered from Ray's hair as he shook his head.

Bodie was watching the flames when he felt the rug come around his shoulders, smelling like dog and dust. He sneezed unwarily, then went blind as pain ripped through his leg.

By the time his vision returned, Ray had assumed a position opposite, leaning against the chimney. His jacket's furred collar sat stiff and high against his jawline. Bodie's gaze fixed on the exposed strip of Ray's throat as his partner swallowed.

'I don't much fancy dying like this. The cold killing by inches.'

'Me neither.'

Struggling, Bodie closed his mouth on the intention to elaborate.

Ray's eyes were watering. Their breath clouded in fits and bursts.

'Shit, Bodie.'

Bodie cleared his throat twice. 'Eloquent fucker.'

Ray dug into his jacket for his gun, contorting to avoid removal of Bodie's borrowed gloves, or unbuttoning his coat. He checked the magazine for bullets, the metallic sounds too loud.

Then he placed his gun on the dirt, his hand flat atop the dark metal.

'When the logs run out, you want me to do the necessary?'

Bodie opened his mouth to counter-offer, and choked. Not even to deliver mercy, could he put a bullet into Ray Doyle's skull.

Except Ray would do it for him.

'Toss you for the privilege?'

Ray nodded, his eyes closed. 'Fair enough. When it comes to it.'

With little else to do, Bodie lit up a cigarette and passed it to his partner. To his surprise, Ray accepted it.

Ray smoked with the cigarette pinched between forefinger and thumb, like a spliff, his smallest finger extended. At rest, his knuckles brushed the floor at his side, cigarette held over his cupped palm. Only his arm moved, from floor to lips to floor.

Smoke curled through the cold air. The cigarettes gave off a stench like burning lapsang, making Bodie desperate for a cup of tea.

After some time, Bodie flicked the soggy end of his own fag into the coals, and eased the second log into the glowing bed of the first.

'You heard of Burke and Willis?'

Ray roused, one eyelid creaking open. 'Not our Willis and not our Burke.'

'Couple of explorers in the eighteen hundreds. They got it into their heads to cross Australia right through the centre.'

'Virgin territory. Go boldly where no man or camel has gone before.'

'Our Burke and Willis left their mates at a camp at the end of the line, with food, water, clothes, women—'

'Just bare necessities?'

'Quite. So Burke and Willis, Willis and Burke, they're two weeks late to the rendezvous. Then three weeks. Ten weeks. Thirteen weeks late. The camp party ends up waiting eighteen weeks for the blokes to return. Then at eighteen weeks, they give up hope. They pack up the camp, the supplies, the food, the water, the women, and trundle back off to civilization.'

'Eighteen weeks was a fair enough wait.'

'Fair, sure. Except here's the clinch: nine hours after the mob bugger off back to beyond, Burke and Willis stagger into the camp, camels on their last legs and themselves not far off, only to find they've only _just_ been abandoned. Turds still steaming, and so on. Talk about discovering true despair.'

'Um. Cheery tale.'

'Thought it might help you count your blessings.' Bodie raised his eyebrows, solemn. 'No one's waiting for us, see?'

A flickering grin. 'I really do wonder about you.'

'Likely my complexity befuddles your simple mind.'

The laughs came quiet, and fell silent too soon.

Bodie suspected the silence dangerous. In silence, he could hear the log's slow consumption. Could feel the pain as his ankle thawed. He could cut off his boot to fill the waiting with action. He could inspect the injury, and use his undervest, worn between his thermal and his skin, to strap what was likely no more than a very bad sprain.

But what point?

_I'll never walk again_ , Bodie told the silence, to test it, and shuddered.

'Ray!'

'You alright?'

'Distract me.'

Lopsided, Ray squinted at him. 'You believe in God?'

'Are you serious?'

'Humour me while I'm distracting you.'

After some consideration, Bodie said, 'I reckon I like St Michael instead.'

'I don't think you're allowed to believe in saints. Pray to them, maybe, but not believe in them. They were mostly real people.'

Bodie rolled his eyes. 'I've found it's best to believe in real people. They come through more than holy ghosts do.'

'But if they're real already, it's not like you need to go around believing in them. They're just there.'

'Right, so God doesn't exist unless I believe he does? Big miscalculation on the part of the supposed Almighty.'

With a wry smile cast his partner's way, Ray avoided the challenge. 'How'd you know enough about the saints to pick one? I thought you weren't raised religious.'

'Doesn't mean I'm ignorant. I read a goodly bit of John at some point.'

'Biblical John?'

Bodie sighed, mocking. 'See, this is what your limited catholic education did to you, Raymond. While I was off learning geography and—'

Ray guffawed at Bodie's extended pause.

'— _useful stuff_ , you were away being bombarded with guilt and memorising pointless prayers.'

'Oho! Says he who carries half of _Classic Poets of England_ in his skull. So if it wasn't biblical John—'

'Milton, Ray. Even you should have heard of him.'

'Ah.'

'Bet you never knew he was my patron saint.'

'I never even knew Milton was sainted.'

'St Michael,' Bodie said, laughing. 'Patron saint of paratroopers and soldiers.'

'I suppose it's as close to God and his angels as a man can get, throwing himself out of an airplane. These wings of silk.'

'Always liked Michael. He's an angel, you know.'

'I'm sure he loves you too,' Ray said, charitably.

The silence rose again, nearly blinding Bodie, tidal as the agony.

Bodie blurted, 'Who is like God.'

'You forgot the "knock, knock". Or is this Jeopardy?'

'What?'

'Alright then.' Ray heaved a sigh. 'I don't know, Bodie, who is like God?'

'I asked you first.'

'Jesus, it's too cold for this.'

'You started it,' Bodie said, satisfied.

Ray looked at him for a long time. A smile of impossible sweetness cracked chapped lips.

'Go on then, kitten. Detangle yourself.'

'It's what the name Michael means: "Who is like God." Except it's not the way it sounds, a question instead of a statement. Who is like God?'

'The answer's not Cowley, is it?'

They grinned at each other.

'Parting the clouds, plucking us up, carrying us home,' Ray said. 'I'd believe in Cowley for that, real or not.'

'Remember that time he had to pull our Thomas out of lockup, with yon omnipotent finger? Divine bloody wrath, that was.'

Ray shook his head, not in denial, but at the memory itself. Bodie grinned wider. Better, now. No need for words in this brand of silence, not with the shared recollection flying thick and fast between them.

Ray chuckled, then before long roared with laughter. Bodie's grin made his cheeks ache, and he helpless but to indulge.

'Such small things amuse you, mate.'

Doyle blotted his eyes. 'That's why I laugh every time you take off your trousers.'

Bodie lifted his chin. 'None ever wished it longer than it is!'

Then they both laughed, shaking with it. In shards, Bodie wondered about hysteria, delirium, whether excess amusement was a sign of impending death by exposure. It felt criminal to continue.

Yet every time the laughter looked to die, they caught sight of each other again, and the amusement roared to life.

Then the laughter continued through the death of the second log, and the smouldering consumption of the third.

The renewed silence no longer felt so ominous.

Without the sense of immediate threat, his physical pain had Bodie seeking refuge. He had few options: to sleep, or to pass out. Shifting positions, he found a half-sprawl that let him rest without undue pain. The doze slipped over him, back and forth, warm as the blanket and cold on awakening. Each time Bodie fell easier for Doyle's bright eyes on him, the gaze undiminished when he resurfaced.

Then discomfort outweighed his willpower, and sleep would no longer come.

'Bit thirsty.'

Doyle heaved himself upright, groaning. He collected clean snow from one side of the cave's entrance, offering it on his knees. 'You take advantage of me, old son.'

'Makes a change, dunnit?'

The snow was cold on bare hands, but burned the inside of Bodie's cheeks. After each swallow, his mouth tasted like blood and metal. He persisted.

When he looked up again, Doyle had resumed his lean, hands tucked tight under his arms.

'Do you reckon our lives have been misspent?'

'Can't spend a life, Doyle. Only got the one, it's hardly a commodity.'

Ray shook his head, slow. 'Like you said, no one's waiting. Nobody’s going to weep their eyes out when we don't come home.'

'Cowley might.'

'Only for shafting his budget and the annoyance of dealing with HR. Aw, come on, Bodie. You know what I mean.'

Bodie did, pained. 'I've never wanted anyone to weep or to wait for me. I'd never want to cause that much hurt.'

For some reason, the comment ignited Ray's fury, his stare intense. 'That's a nasty way to look at love. What else is there, except what we've done for others? It's not like we've done much to brag about, for Queen or country—'

'Yeah, _mate_ , and I've done even more things not to brag about. You know what, Doyle? There's still not many who've been where I've been, seen what I have. The world's a fucking beautiful place, even if the company's ugly. And when the company isn't ugly, even the barest fucking cave is worth a world heritage listing. I wouldn't trade places with your bloody pope if it meant giving up what I'd known.'

The silence thickened.

Without rising, Ray added the fourth log to the coals.

'Why'd you jump for me, Bodie?

The question jarred like a physical blow.

'No alternative. Andreev threw you out of a plane. You didn't have a chute. I did.'

'Should've stayed with Andreev's crew,' Ray said, quietly. 'Maintained your cover.'

Bodie, still frowning, let the newly tamed silence speak for him.

'Wish I'd had my phrasebook up there,' Ray said, idle. 'Stupid thing to wish for, isn't it? Like they would've let me whip it out. I could pick out a word or two, figured they were planning on tossing me — what were we, an hour away from the mob's actual jump? Well, you knew, didn't you, all kitted out and ready to fly? I felt it in my gut. Was fucking terrified. Over the middle of a bloody wasteland, no way out, take a bullet to the face or—' Slowly, he folded his left hand around his right fist. 'Soon as you took a hold of me, I wasn't afraid of a single thing.' Wistfully, 'You notice we fell through a cloud? Never thought I'd do something like that.'

Bodie watched Ray try to suppress the shiver.

'So what did our young master make of his first jump?'

Ray's lips quirked. 'Can't fault the speed of instruction. Dunno about the destination, though. Bit desolate. I was promised hot tea and there was none. I shall write a complaint to the manager.'

Despite the smile, his shivering intensified. Ray clenched his jaw to stop his teeth chattering.

Bodie confronted the urge to embrace him, and studied it carefully. Not so bad a thought, to die in each other's arms, but something held him back.

The way they sat now, they faced each other, exposed. The horrified honesty in Ray's eyes of their fate, and Bodie knew himself a mirror. No obfuscation of their deaths. Bodie felt raw, watching the expressions flit across Ray's chapped cheeks, but not alone. The space between them held dignity. They were in each other's arms at the oddest of times. But not now, no huddling. There could be no better way to go but this, barefaced in front of his partner, bold as anything.

_This way, the last time I held him in my arms, I saved his life_.

The thought marked the last lucid one, before lethargy dragged him down.

Not asleep, not with the agony in waves. He could heard Ray speak, at times, and felt his own lips move, but had no knowledge of the applicability of response.

Even within that strange suspended state, Bodie felt an unforgiving rage. A lifetime ago, betrayal fresh as the bloody wounds, he had nearly frozen to death on a doorstep. Snowbound Berlin, cold and heartless as any a town. He had raged then, just like this, incapable of believing that survival but a door's thickness away from him. He crawled to find his salvation, and swore he'd never crawl again, burning rage as fuel, towards distant church bells, streets echoing with the willfully ignorant and a barking dog—

Except the dogs didn't belong in that memory. Surely they didn't belong in a frozen wasteland, either?

Bodie opened his eyes. The only colour on Ray was the green of his own.

'Wolves don't bark, do they?' Ray whispered, hoarse.

Two dogs belled, as though in the hunt.

Followed by a man's echoing shout: a command for quiet, as quiet then fell.

Ray lurched into the fresh snow, picking up speed. A sense of wrongness had Bodie sit up; Ray left behind his gun, daft sod.

'Up fucking here! Here, you domesticated four-legged bloody fuckers!' A shrill whistle split the wilderness asunder. Banishing the silence for good, Ray's patent roar followed: _'Oi!'_

Reality wormed its way under the blanket on Bodie's mind. As though surfacing after a dive, he was suddenly gasping for breath.

If it was Andreev's men doubled back to kill them, with dogs to sniff them down. If it was some farmer or hunter, spontaneously checking his summer shelter for soundness before the blizzard due tomorrow. If it was anything, it still wouldn't be freezing to death, or letting his best mate shoot him and being so shamefully thankful for the courtesy.

With the chimney as a brace, Bodie found his feet.

  



End file.
